When Is A Sex Toy Not A Sex Toy?

….when it’s a back massager.

I’ve been writing (often badly) about love and sex for years, which, Imma be straight with you, Pranksters, Carrie Bradshaw makes seem much more glamorous than it truly is. I mean, I’ve never actually made enough to outfit my closet in anything besides Target Sale Stuffs, not Manolo Blahnik’s, and I’m okay with that. Shoes for $400 bucks would make me nervous and twitchy the same way owning a Ferrari in New York would: while sometimes pretty, it’s not worth the anxiety it would cause. I mean, if I ruin a $20 pair of shoes, I’m annoyed with myself. I can’t imagine how I’d feel if I broke $400 worth of footwear.

Alas, I digress.

Because I happen to own a blog that ends with “blog,” I’m often hit up by PR companies to send me such items as “a coupon for a frozen dinner” that the PR company is just CERTAIN I’ll want to wax poetic about to my awesome Pranksters, not understanding that I rarely eat, and when I do, it’s not the cause for a blog post. I’m no cooking blogger, y’all, and I normally want to hork anytime anyone posts pictures of food. It just doesn’t translate well without a $5,000 camera and professional lighting set-up, which, Pranksters, I neither have nor want. Who wants to look at their pores under those lights? (answer: not me)

Once in awhile, though, I’ll receive an offer for a sex toy, which, duh, of course I take it. Doesn’t mean I need to write a soft-core porn post, although that might be humorously disgusting, but still – who doesn’t like sex toys? (answer: people who hate fluffy kittens)(no, not SWEATER kittens).

Well before I moved, Lelo (link PROLLY not appropriate for work), who happens to be one of the best sex toy makers out there, somehow stumbled here and read about the pain in my neck and how I “give good spasm,” (neck spasms, Pranksters) and offered to send me one of their neck massagers. Which, after I’ve already done PT, weird drugs, seen a chiropractor, and bought a tens machine, all to no avail, I was more than willing to give a proverbial shot.

When it arrived, I’d already forgotten that Lelo had sent me something, so I was shocked to open the package and find this:

When is a sex toy not a sex toy

I goggled at it for awhile, certain that this couldn’t possibly be a sex toy. I mean, it LOOKS like a sex toy, but frankly, I couldn’t POSSIBLY begin to¬† imagine using that on anything other than my neck. The two men in my house disagreed.

Dave: “WOAH, why is there a huge penis charging on the kitchen counter?”

Me: “It’s not a penis, it’s a neck massager.”

Dave: “Bwahahahaha. No it’s not.”

Me: “I did pop three babies out of my vagina, but damns, that thing isn’t gonna fit there.”

Dave: “Bwahahahaha.”

—————–

(two hours later)

The Guy (Formerly) On My Couch: “Wow, Becks, nice dildo.”

Me (through clenched teeth): “It’s NOT a dildo.”

The Guy (Formerly) On My Couch: “Oh yes it is.”

—————–

So that was that. Two out of two men assumed that the neck massager I’d been using to work that knot from my neck, the one that had been there for three years was actually intended for the vagina. I had no way to make them understand that this neck massager was, in fact, a massager and not an extremely large dlido.

Finally, I approached the two of them, who were sitting on the couch together eating dinner and watching incredibly crappy television, neck massager in my hand.

“If this were a dildo,” I began. “Why on EARTH would a well-known sex toy company send me it under the guise of it being a “neck massager?”

They both stared at me, slack-jawed before nodding a bit.

“Gotta admit,” Dave began. “You have a point there,” finished The Guy (Formerly) On My Couch.

“Good,” I replied. “Glad we had this little talk.”

As I turned to walk out of the room, Dave leaned over and semi-whispered to The Guy (Formerly) On My Couch. “It’s totally a dildo.”

“Yep,” The Guy (Formerly) On My Couch replied. “It sure is.”

I Really Need To Stop Referring To Myself As “Sasquatch”

I almost felt sorry for my neurologist. He’s a big hulking man, probably 6 foot 5; looks like he just stepped off a Spaghetti Western, and he’s full of the awesome. I’d just informed him that, “the headaches are back and they’re worse then ever.”

This proclamation looked like it might make him weep. Lord knows I’d given up crying about my migraines (makes ’em worse), but to see him so visibly upset, well, now I wanted to be all, “GIMMIE A HUG!

Except that would be kinda weird. Also: creepy. Instead, I looked at my hands.

Eventually, after much hand-wringing and sighing (from him), he suggested a new treatment regime. I’ve been taking The Max (Topamax) daily for a year and a half and had a various arsenal of other things to take “if” (pithy aside: ha!) I got a Breakthrough Migraine. I’d gone up to 200 mg/day, which, he had warned me at the time, had some side effects. Like “cognitive impairment.”

That’s a fancy way saying I got stupider. If you’ve had chronic migraines, you’ll do just about anything to get rid of them, so being a little dumb? Eh, I figured, how bad is that?

Turns out, it’s kind of a bitch.

Sure, I bought a notebook and learned to make lists, which works to some degree, but being acutely aware of losing my short-term memory? It’s discouraging.

Back when Daver was my boyfriend, he had this ridiculous friend who was in Teaching School. One night, stuck hanging out with her, she gave out her email: aphasia@….com. I asked if she had any idea what “aphasia” was. Yes, she replied, but it’s such a pretty word!!

I nearly smacked her.

Aphasia, for those of you unaware, is an acquired language disorder in which there is an inability to speak, comprehend what others say or understand the written word.

Aphasia is the loss of words. It’s not funny, it’s not cute, and even then, I was mildly offended (which is saying a lot, especially considering my AIM account was/is stinkybutt234)

Aphasia is a commonish side effect for Topamax. Higher dose, higher chance.

Trust me, when you’re asked “where something is?” (which, in my house, is every other minute) and you cannot pluck the words from your mind and string them together properly and worse, you know it, after awhile, it gets old. I’ve been tired of feeling that foggy Topamax brain, but so long as it was keeping the migraines at bay, I was willing to live with it.

I’m going off The Max.

I’m trying Depakote, which has, of course, new and improved side effects that can potentially kill me. “Hair changes are common,” he said, as he wrote out the script. “Hair changes?” I said dubiously. With my thyroid sipping Mai Tai’s with all of your MIA organs, my hair is already unhappy.

my-missing-thyroid

Worthless, lazy thyroid.

“Yes,” he went on. “Your hair can become brittle, fall out, or become very curly.”

He also listed some side effects about bone marrow and liver failure but I wasn’t listening because, well, OBVIOUSLY. HAIR.

you-shut-your-whore-mouth-shirt

If that’s me now, in my not-at-all-inappropriate and totally stylish Shut Your Whore Mouth shirt.

What would I look like bald and/or turned curly?

My mine wandered as he talked about “birth defects” and “blood work.”

Would I look like this?

whore-mouth-shirts

I mean, Amelia’s curls came from somewhere…

aunt-becky-as-a-baby

(that’s an ORCHID in my hair, yo)

The likelihood of curls returning is high.

He didn’t say anything about OTHER hair growth, though. But now I’m wondering if I’m about to become Sasquatch.

whore-mouth-shirts

Pretty much, I’m going to be the sexiest ever.

Wanna make out?

While I was waiting for my script to be filled, I wandered over to the AS SEEN ON TV section of the pharmacy. If I haven’t already expressed this to you, I’m telling you now: I love a good infomercial like I love air and Junior Mints.

It was there that I saw something so wondrous, so amazing, so inspiring that I nearly wept.

The iRenew Energy Band Bracelet thingy.

iRenew-energy-bracelet

LOOK, Pranksters! It could RESTORE my ENERGY (read: my hair) and help me restore BALANCE. Since I busted my lip eating a waffle the other day, I figure that’s a BONUS. It even had a snappy logo. I love snappy logos.

irenew-lame-asses

And look! They’re so…harmonious! I mean, I bet if I got one of those bracelets, I, too, could do a fish-eyed vapid, yet-oh-so-meaningful stare off into the distance with Dexter, looking toward my future. My future with HAIR.

irenew-old-balls

And woah, look at that Old Balls playing VOLLEYBALL. Pranksters, I’ve never played volleyball, but you know what? MAYBE ME AND MY LUSCIOUS HEAD OF HAIR WOULD…if I bought the iRenew bracelet.

I just knew that this was the Answer To My Prayers.

Until I saw it was $20. Then I realized it was Bullshit and bought some Old People Multivitamins instead.

Seemed wiser.

But man, that As Seen on TV Magic Gravity Ball has my NAME ALL OVER IT.

————-

I’m running a contest on Band Back Together to win another (yay!) shirt. A little later, I’ll be over there trolling for new shirt idears. Just have to write up a quickie post about it, yo. I have a couple in mind and I’d love your input.

 

Best Buy Totally Hates Me

Yesterday, I woke up and Billy Motherfucking Mays was all:

IT’S VALENTINE’S DAY, YOU DIRTY SLUT, SO GET YOUR LAZY BITCH-ASS UP AND GET READY TO FUCKING SPARKLE ALL OVER THE FUCKING PLACE.

When Billy Motherfucking Mays is the first voice in your head in the morning, you shut your whore mouth and you listen.

Gingerly, opened my eyes and thought about my plans for the day. I had an appointment with my neurologist who looks, incidentally, like he stepped off the set of a spaghetti Western somewhere (I’ve diagnosed him with GERD)(gastroesophogeal reflux disease)(he should really get that taken care of). Over by the neuro was the mall. At the mall were STORES. At the stores were PRESENTS. Presents for ME.

Today, I thought, was going to be a very good day indeed.

I sat up. Easy-peasy, I thought to myself. Eye of the Motherfucking Tiger!

Then, in an alarming fit of poor judgment, I stood up. Whoops! My bad. My legs felt like wobbly stumps, thanks to the migraine and Imitrex. Well, shit. Hard to take on the world without properly functioning legs.

I hummed “Life’s Been Good To Me So Far,” as I made my way to the bathroom. All right, I cheered. I got my fucking sea-legs.

When I looked in the mirror, this is what looked back;

Woah. That’s hot. I should probably become a model or something.

(BARBIZON, BE A MODEL, OR JUST LOOK LIKE ONE)

I tried to scrub the ugly off my face but it just wasn’t happening. The Ugly Cry has it’s aftermath.

I wobbled down and drank some coffee, giggling at all of the anti-VD Tweets (I have other holidays I feel similarly about) and tried to peck out a post. I’ve been writing in the mornings for so long that if I don’t, I feel like I’m missing an arm.

But I couldn’t.

I was wobbly in the head, too.

Billy Motherfucking Mays piped in:

“SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH AND WRITE A GODDAMNED POST, YOU LAZY DRUG-SEEKING BAG OF WIND.”

But luckily, Bob Motherfucking Ross was right behind him:

“Happy Clouds, Aunt Becky. Focus on the Happy Clouds.”

I tried to see those happy fucking clouds and write my goddamed post at the same time and I just couldn’t do it.

Then it came to me. I needed to go where I’d never (willingly) gone before to do something I’d never (willingly) done before: look at laptops.

We all know that my technical knowledge begins and ends with I push a button and the Magical Elves in the Email Machine come alive! So the very notion going to a computer store for the express purpose of looking at computers for myself is as laughable as me painting my kitchen with my tongue.

Normally, I only go to Best Buy if ambushed:

Daver, My Dad, or My Brother: “Oh HEY there, Becky/Rebecca/Stumpy, let’s go to MCDONALDS!!”

Me: “OOOOOOOOH CHEESEBURGERS.”

(I get into the car like a rube)

Me: “HEY WAIT A MINUTE THERE’S NO CHEESEBUR…GAH, OH MY GOD THE BLUE AND THE YELLOW AND FUCKING SHITBALLS IT’S SO BRIGHT IN HERE. LOUD. LOUD. LOUD. HALP ME HALP ME HALP. MAKE IT GO AWAY.”

Daver, My Dad or My Brother: “You think you’d learn, but you never do.”

Then I hover, invading their personal space, until they get fed up and leave. Alternately, I insist that they buy me something exorbitantly expensive. Like a pony.

To actually want to go to Worst Best Buy is the equivalent to hell freezing over. But I need a lappy and I don’t have a lappy and every time I try and look for one online, this is what it looks like,

And then I get really annoyed because there are so many fucking NUMBERS and I don’t actually CARE about most of them so then I go and watch Dexter mutilate people and feel better until I realize that I still should figure out which laptop I am going to buy because, hi, this staying home all day bullshit is making me twitchy.

Also: I need to take the Internet away from Jimmy Wales and Mark Zuckerberg because it’s time for a GIRL to be in charge. I need to RUB MY VAGINA on the internet, Pranksters, but I have to be able to be MOBILE to dominate the world and shit.

I proceeded into Best Buy after perfecting my GET AWAY FROM ME GEEK SQUAD look in the mirror.

See, if you don’t watch out for them, they sneak up on you and the next thing you know, you have to hear a sermon on why you should buy their stupid anti-virus protection or whatever, but you’re just standing there, mentally rearranging their features kinda like Mr. Potato Head but geekier. So you have to be wary of them. Very wary.

I snuck to the back of the store where the keep the lappy’s hostage, ogling the desktops as I went past.

And there they were: row after row of laptops. Finally, I could stop obsessing about my inability to decide and just fucking decide already. This was too tedious, even for me, to obsess about.

I rolled my eyes at the tiny netbooks. I didn’t need no stinkin’ netbook. Child’s play.

And there it was. A light, a beacon of light, shone down and I saw exactly what I needed. A laptop that said, “hey world, I’m a fucking blogger. You’d better take me and my 17 inches of swinging death seriously or I am going to go all CPU (whatever that means) on your ass. I’ll punch you in the throat if you don’t take me and my oversized screen and too many memory chips and stuff fucking seriously because I am a blogger and this is an absurdly awesome computer.”

A laptop that was absurdly absurd. Too much computer. WAY too much computer.

Just like I like it, baby.

Just as soon as I sell a kidney, Imma get me a fucking big ass 17-inch MacBook Pro. So I can go all (insert a bunch of nerdly phrases that I don’t understand here) on the Internet’s Ass. I’LL SHOW ZUCKERBERG WHO’S BOSS.

Just as soon as, uh, I get it. And stuff.

SO TAKE THAT, ZUCKERBERG. In um, a, um, couple of months…and stuff, I’m going to take over the INTERNET.

#BOOYEAH

On Obligatory Obligations

Like roughly 72% of the blog world, I was at that gigantic conference this weekend and to be completely honest, Pranksters, I didn’t know what to expect. I’d gone last year, and for the few of you who read me last year who still read me now, I didn’t have a particularly good time. 85% of my problem was this:

It’s not a very good likeness, for someone who looks more like this:

Anyone expecting a cartoon Russian Lady washing the floors were SOL.

So learn from me, Pranksters, if you are going to a conference and your avatar is a cartoon or a picture from 80 years ago, you may want to update it so that people know what you look like. Just, you know, saying.

The other problem was that the tone of the entire conference (or at least what I saw of it), just seemed…wrong. What I’ve always liked about blogging was the sense of community and I just didn’t see any of that. When I tried to insert myself into a group of people talking it was all “talk to the hand, Aunt Becky” and that? SADPANDA.

I couldn’t find mah friends (shocking, I know, but I have friends)(well, I pay them, but you know) and so by Day 2, when my son Alex got orbital cellulitis, I was out of there.

But this year, it just wasn’t like that. The blogging community seemed to be back to it’s community-centered roots and from the moment I got there to the moment I left, I was happy in the pants.

On Friday, due to some TERRIBLE miscalculation on BlogHer’s part, I was speaking on a panel with the Mouthy Housewives about giving advice in the blog world. We hadn’t really hashed out the details, but I figured that if all else failed, we could do a Dance Party audience participation bit.

When I was in high school and we had to do group presentations, that was always my go-to solution: dance-off’s. Who doesn’t like a dance-off? (answer: people who hate kittens and big-eyed puppies).

I showed up, our panel being DIRECTLY after lunch, and I was a little concerned that people would be all, “FOOD COMA, MUST NAP” and blow off the session, so I tweeted that anyone who didn’t show up would be hunted down and kicked in the taco. I mean, nothing like a little threat of vagina-punching to get the attendees rolling in.

AND THEY CAME. This gigantic room, which probably held 30 or 300 people (math is not my strong suit) it was FILLED UP WITH REAL PEOPLE. My Pranksters, you showed up. I would have cried, except that I have to pay someone to do that and I had no cash.

BlogHer is working on an audio-recording of it, so you can hear me say things like, “When I write, Magic comes out,” (or perhaps not), but for now, there’s a live-blog of it up here. You should comment on it and tell BlogHer that reading the live-blog made you cry because it was so moving. Just because it was actually hilarious. The whole session was hysterical and the room was in stitches most of the time. Although they may have been laughing AT us, but who cares?

The Mouthy Housewives are freaking awesome and we didn’t even need a Dance Contest to fill up the hour, although that sort of made me sad, because I could have busted out my wicked “Sprinkler” and “Mowing the Lawn” for you to see. (shut up, my dance moves RULE).

But I wanted to talk about something else, besides how grateful I am that you all voted for us to have this session (thanks, Pranksters!).

Disclaimer: while my session was about advice blogs, what follows is not about running an advice blog.

Someone who had a fairly serious blog–not an advice blog–let’s say it was about drug addiction, asked about other people who had found her blog and wanted her advice about drug addiction. She seemed unsure about what to do with these people who wanted her advice on this very serious topic.

My statement to her, which made about half of the room look at me as though I’d grown three heads, all of which had started singing, “Don’t Rain on my Parade:”

“You don’t owe the Internet anything.”

I immediately followed that up with, “I don’t mean to sound harsh, but it’s true,” especially after seeing that everyone looked at me like I was the second coming of Alien.

I’d read something, I think it was actually on BlogHer’s website, about how other, Big Bloggers owed Smaller Bloggers a hand, and it had turned into a spirited discussion over there, but I feel this applies to any sort of, well, ANYTHING on The Internet.

Just because someone feels that they have a connection with you for some reason: drunken parents, teenage pregnancy, a couple of kids, abusive relationships, being a fellow blogger, infertility, WHATEVER, it doesn’t mean that you owe them anything. Especially not a solution to their problem.

Especially if the burden of helping them solve their problem will be something that drags you down as well.

For my friends, there’s very little that I wouldn’t do, and for my Pranksters, you know I love you all and will help you with whatever you need, because in turn, I know I can turn to each of you to help me out when I need a hand. There’s a give and take in a relationship like that, and I’m so fortunate to have found such an amazing community of people here. I don’t take that for granted–ever.

But for someone who finds me through clicking links or Google, then sends me a random email, and then expects that I can drop whatever I’m doing to help them increase their blog traffic? Or counsel them through xxx? I have no obligation to them. If I choose to help them, it’s my choice.

I don’t owe The Internet anything.

I can help my friends with whatever they need, but I don’t owe anybody anything. There’s a difference there, you see? It may be a fine line, but there is a line.

If you’re reading this and wondering if I’m talking about you, I’m not. Genuinely, if you’re a Prankster, then you’re one of my friends, of course I’ll help you if I can. But I don’t think it’s such a radical idea to assert that we don’t owe The Internet anything. You don’t have to help anyone just because they ask.

Putting yourself out there is enough. If you do want to help someone, that’s full of the awesome. If you don’t, that shouldn’t make you feel guilty. It’s not your job to solve the world’s problems and it doesn’t make you a bad person to say, “hey, I can’t handle talking about xxx anymore” or “I can’t help you with your problem.”

And you know what? I’ll probably help you, but not because I have to.

—————–

But I’m beyond interested to hear what you have to say about it, Pranksters. So tell me your thoughts on this: do you feel that you owe the Internet anything? Why or why not? Has anyone ever asked you for something that you simply felt uncomfortable about (besides, of course, the hot Russian spammers, who want your credit card numbers)?

 

Viva la Affairs!

Aunt Becky: “It’s almost my birthday.”

The Daver: “Yeah?”

Aunt Becky: “Yup! I’ve been regularly petitioning the White House to change July to “Aunt Becky’s Birthday Month” rather than like, “Breast Awareness Month” because it seems like a good idea.”

The Daver: “I think the Breast Awareness people will be pretty pissed at you.”

Aunt Becky: “Well, in that case, we can SHARE it. Because really, we both like women AND boobs, AND pink! This is a total win!”

The Daver: “You keep on keepin’ on.”

Aunt Becky: “So far they’ve managed to ignore me, but I WILL NOT BE SILENCED!”

The Daver: “You have to fight, Becky, for what’s important.”

Aunt Becky: “I mean, maybe I should petition the French government to change the date of Bastille Day to the day AFTER and then change the name to “Aunt Becky’s Birthday SLASH Bastille Day.”

The Daver: “Are you French?”

Aunt Becky: “Um. No. But I’ve been to France! I like Brie!”

The Daver: “But are you French?”

Aunt Becky (thinks): “I’m Swedish, Scottish, and Black Irish, I think.”

The Daver: “That may not be enough.”

Aunt Becky: “Well, I could lie. Or maybe get impregnated by a Frenchman. THEN I would be FRENCH by…um…whatchu call it?”

The Daver: “…”

Aunt Becky: “I WOULD BE FRENCH BY INJECTION!”

The Daver: “Good luck with that conquest, Becks.”

Aunt Becky: “What’s the president of France’s Twitter? Do you know it? I bet he’ll respond to me immediately. I mean, how could he not?”

The Daver: “You may have to ask Twitter.”

Aunt Becky: “WAIT, I WONDER IF HE’D KNOCK ME UP!”

The Daver: “Over Twitter?”

Aunt Becky: “Now you’re just being absurd.”

The Daver: “Me? I’M the absurd one?”

Aunt Becky (plots): “I should DM him and see if we can have a clandestine meeting. I think I read in People Magazine that he likes to have affairs.”

The Daver: “Good luck with the affair, Becky. Now, I have to get back to the meeting with the CEO of my company. I’d appreciate if you didn’t call me out of meetings to scheme with you.”

Aunt Becky: “Hey, can you ask your CEO if he knows the Twitter handle of the president of France?”

The Daver: “No.”

Aunt Becky: “Ass.”

P.S. Lily Grace is out of surgery, off the vent and KICKING ASS! Pranksters, you humble me as always. Much, much love. Her mother, Nikki, her father, and her whole family read and will be reading all of the comments you left. Thank you so very much.

xoxo.

Easter, According To Aunt Becky

In college, I had to take what I called, “Bible Class” and it was the first time I actually cracked open the Bible. Well, other than the times I read aloud random passages from the hotel rooms I was staying in (much, I should add, to the chagrin to whomever I happened to be staying with). Thank you I say now, oh wily Gideon’s, for supplying me with Bibles to read from to annoy my fellow travelers with.

I read the book cover to cover and learned a lot about what the rest of the religious world was talking about. Things that most of you probably just inherently knew, but for someone like me who grew up saying “Good food, good meat, good God, let’s eat” as a bastardized version of Grace, I simply was flabbergasted. There really is, I should add now, no fucking separation of church and state.

Anyway. I married someone who grew up in a family who is so religious that they’re probably still reeling from the PTSD from meeting me and finding out that yes, their son loves a heathen.

For Ash Wednesday one year, I was working on the floor and the pastor happened to be walking around giving out the cross on the forehead, and in the name of Trying Something New, I had decided to give up using “fuck” for Lent. It should go without saying that I am not Catholic, but I was reading the Bible and figured that it was a good idea to TRY it out.

Aunt Becky Gives Up The Eff Word:

The Daver: “What’s on your forehead?”

Aunt Becky: “Ashes.”

The Daver: “From?”

Aunt Becky: “I gave up using “fuck” for Lent.”

The Daver: “You know that means you can’t say it, right?”

Aunt Becky: “FUCK.”

Lent FAIL.

Aunt Becky Goes Crucifix Shopping:

The Daver: “Shit, I need to pick up something for the Christening on Sunday. Can you pick up something for my new Goddaughter?”

Aunt Becky: “Something…?”

The Daver: “Just go to the religious store in town and get her something.”

Aunt Becky: “Bwahahahahahahahahaha!”

The Daver: “You know, like a pearl something.”

Aunt Becky: “I’m going to go and get her a gigantic crucifix.”

The Daver: “No.”

Aunt Becky: “Like a gigantic BLEEDING crucifix for them to hang in her room.”

The Daver: “NO!”

Aunt Becky: “I want it to have like realistic blood and everything. I’m thinking something in the market of…8 feet tall and 6 feet wide. That should take up at least part of the wall of the nursery.”

The Daver: “Becky, that’s not funny.”

Aunt Becky: “Maybe they can hang it over her bassinet! To keep out The Devil. I think it would be lovely to watch over her.”

The Daver: “Becky, that’s really not funny at all.”

Aunt Becky: “Neither is sending me into a religious store. I don’t know FUCK about this shit, Dave. Besides, YOU are the Godfather, not me. Also, YOU are the heavenly one.”

The Daver: “Please?”

Aunt Becky: “Do you think this sort of crucifix is a custom job?”

Christening FAIL.

(ed note: Dave didn’t speak to me for an entire week. Also, I bought the kid a nice bracelet with a tasteful non-gory cross on it.)

What religion will Aunt Becky mess up next?

It’s like Where In The World Is Carmen Sandiego? except with RELIGION.

Anyway, in order to redeem myself, I made YOU, my Pranksters, some new cards for Easter. I think there are also some other ones in my Love, Aunt Becky line on my sidebar. Feel free to take as you see fit because I am a giver.

Now, enjoy the cards, Pranksters.

When Logic And Proportion Have Fallen Sloppy Dead

If you’re reading this in a reader, because you are a brilliant soul (Google Reader is not only my BFF but my lover and also, I would tongue kiss it if I could)(maybe some days I do)(shut UP), I’d ask you kindly to click through and see my fancy new design! It was done by the fabulous admin at Mommy Brained.

See, now, I know her REAL name, but unlike my stupid ass, she goes by “admin.” Intentional or not, I’m not positive. But she rules, and you really should check her out if you want a site design. And a laugh.

Along with my new design, I have decided that I am going to start my own (crappy) advice column, because the world needs to know more of my worthless opinions, right? (don’t answer that) On my sidebar, you will see a new page added “Go Ask Aunt Becky” and if you click on it, a page will open! Like delicious magic!

Your questions can be submitted directly through the site allowing for some degree of anonymity, because sometimes, shit the things I want to know aren’t really something I want attached to my good name.

The answers will air on Sundays (also known in my house as Post Secret Days) and any other time I feel the need to answer something rather than try and come up with a real, actual post.

(also, I’ve been trying to answer comments IN the comments. Because I win at LIFE.)

To answer the most burning and frequent questions that I will no doubt get, let me strike preemptively:

1) I’d guess that my sexy ass is a gift from God and genetics.

2) That rash on your crotch is scabies and no, I will not look at it.

You’re welcome.

Sadder Than A Paint-By-Number Sad-Eyed Black Velvet Jesus Clown

97: times I’ve wondered if that Google Friend Connect button for my reader actually works.

0: times it’s worked.

1,273,009: posts that I’ve undoubtedly missed.

84: times each day that I offer a prayer of thanks to the universe for bringing me Diet Coke.

2: days until I am officially a mother of an 8 year old.

984: times that thought has made my heart stop.

1,679: Twitter followers that are no doubt in awe of my awfulness

3: potentially offensive things I say on Twitter each day on average.

3: average number of Tweets per day

6: number of flies I have fed my Venus Flytrap in the past four months.

6: number of times I have clapped like a stupid monkey after it ate that fly.

0: hours a day Amelia fells like sleeping

60: times an hour I lovingly caress the Children’s Benedryl bottle and say, “soon, my sweet, soon.”

24: hours a day I feel like sleeping.

4,373: times a minute Alex can say the word, “Mommy” without breaking a sweat.

0: trolls I have gotten here from the NY Times article.

53: comments the article garnered before they wisely closed comments.

50: comments that made my jaw drop wide, wide open.

9,473,030: times I have wondered how one is supposed to handle criticism like that.

1: horrible haircut that I bestowed upon Alex after it became tragically clear that I could no longer easily get him to wash his hairs.

36: times I have vowed to never let another pair of scissors wielded by me to get near his enormous cranium.

9,110,746 and counting: hairs I have lost since Amelia was birthed.

394: times I have considered weaving sweaters made of my own hair to sell on Etsy.

13: mcg my Synthroid was adjusted yesterday.

9: minimum number of months for my thyroid to get back out of “dangerously low” range.

Infinity: number of times it will be funny to say “I HAVE A GLANDULAR PROBLEM” in a high, nasally voice. Because I do.

Infinity: number of times I wish that I did NOT have a glandular problem to mock.

1,331,789,756,009: times I have wanted to choke the stupid duck on the Wonder Pets for saying, “This is SEWEOUS.”

Because THAT, motherfucker, IS serious. DEADLY serious.

It’s Not Me, It’s You

I remember the first time I realized that I hated most fiction was whenever we were forced to read A Tale of Two Cities* in high school. I suffered through it along with the rest of my class, trying to muddle through the names and nicknames of people–all of whom I mixed up regularly–before giving up entirely and buying my first and only copy of Cliffs Notes. And even in discernible English, I was bored shitless.

As I’ve gotten older, it dawned on me that overall? Not very interested in fiction. I’m glad that the genre exists, the same way I feel about soft-core porn romance novels, but given a choice between reading one and having to suffer through another visit to my endocrinologist (I HAVE A GLANDULAR PROBLEM, PEOPLE), I’m not positive which I’d choose. Diabetes Monthly might interest me more, and I am (shockingly!) not diabetic.

Maybe that’s what appeals to me so much about blogging. With a few notable exceptions, most of the blogs I read are at least mostly non-fiction. I guess I can just connect with a real person more than I can connect with Mrs. Pip or whatever her fucking whore name was.

There was this whole panel at BlogHer about “finding your blogging tribe” and, no, of course I didn’t go. I’m certain that had I tried, I would have found that there was standing room only in the back, so in the long run I’m glad that my slackerdom won out there.

But the point of the session was good. It’s important to find Your People. Back when Jesus was my classmate and I first started blogging, one of my first real friends, and I mean REAL friends, was Stefanie Wilder-Taylor, who blogs at Baby on Bored.

Stef probably knows more about me than anyone else on the planet, which, considering I live in the Armpit of the Midwest and she lives in hip AND sunny California, is saying quite a lot for someone who doesn’t regularly get to to slam back some Diet Cokes with me. Stef is the shit and if you don’t know her, you’re an idiot, and go over to her blog immediately. Well, no, finish this entry first because I DO have a point.

(shut UP)

Because she is cooler than the rest of us, Stef has written not one, not two, but three books, AND THEY HAVE ACTUALLY BEEN PUBLISHED. Her first was Sippy Cups Are Not For Chardonnay (which, obviously, they’re for VODKA), her second was Naptime Is The New Happy Hour, and her latest is It’s Not Me, It’s You.

The first two of her books focus on parenting, taking an honest look at what parenting means and then reminding you that things are pretty fucking funny after all (also funny are the hateful reviews on Amazon, because, seriously, these people need to get the fcuk over themselves). I wish I’d had them when Ben was a baby, because reading them was like talking with a good friend. You know, the sort that knows you and likes you anyway?

It’s Not Me, It’s You
is a bitingly funny and honest memoir that had me wincing and nodding at the same time (I never wince)(I also never cry)(I also hate Thousand Island dressing, because what’s the point?). And seriously, you need to read it to believe it. The woman has lived approximately 405 lives and counting and makes you or I seem like the most boring person on the planet.

She sent me a copy right after Amelia was born, and I actually forfeited sleep one night WHILE I HAD A NEWBORN to stay up and read it. If you know how much sleep means to me and how I’d probably auction off one of my arms to get more of it, it would be evidence of just how fucking good this book is.

I don’t do product reviews here because I’m not really an authority on much besides firmly advocating AGAINST generic toilet paper, and I really hate it when blogs are all “go spend your money on THIS” because it’s fucking annoying. But you need to read this book. Because if you like ME, you’ll love Stef.

(do you remember those designer impostors perfumes? If you like Obsession, you’ll love STALKER? It’s kind of like that. Or maybe I’m the Diet Coke of Stef)

So, now that I’ve told you what you need to be reading, what should I be reading? Blogs? Books? Toothpaste tubes? People Magazine?

*To be fair, I’m sure Mr. Dickens would probably want to pop out his eyeballs if forced to read anything that I wrote.

Because I’m Pretty Sure That Opera Singing Is Out Of The Question

(boring housekeeping crap is below the extra-awesome entry. Because on a scale of 1 to 10, I am super great)

I’m thinking I could maybe sue my parents or something maybe, for not being more supportive and helpful when I was Trying To Decide What I Should Do With My Life. Whenever I told them what I was going to be when I grew up, they absentmindedly gave me the parental equivalent of, “Yes, Dear,” without so much as looking up from their New Yorker or Atlantic.

If they batted an eyelash when I swore up and down, at age 8, that I was going to be a world class ballerina (while I routinely walked into walls because Grace is absolutely NOT my middle name), I’d happily eat my own tongue, slathered in mayo (!!!). I got the same reaction as if I swore I was going to become a serial killer who began her killing spree by murdering her parents or swearing that I was going to be the next Cover Girl model.

I couldn’t raise a pulse in either of them no matter what I tried. They toed the line between being “free-to-be-you-and-me” and comatose.

In the 5th Grade, I remember sitting around in a circle at the end-of-year picnic and one by one we were supposed to say aloud what we were going to grow up to be*. Always the overachiever with the answer normally on the tip of my tongue, I was baffled beyond belief. So I did the only thing I could think of: I copied other people. When it got to be my turn, I took the previous two answers and nearly shouted them, “I’m-gonna-be-an-actress-and-a-secretary!”

Never mind I’d never shown the slightest aptitude or desire to act–unless it got me out of making my bed–nor did I have the slightest idea what a secretary did. My own mother, at the front and center of the feminist movement, who had her degree in chemistry, would have shuddered if she heard me.

But hey, it was a reaction.

As I got older, I continued my quest to determine what the hell I wanted to become. My high school is sort of like a small college, so there were any number of courses and tracks you could take to go wherever you wanted. Figuring I’d become a doctor like everyone else in my family, a noble profession, I didn’t give much of a thought as to what that really meant.

And then I had Ben, freshly 21 and a single mother. Medical school was out, nursing school was in. So I became a nurse. In order to make it through a program that I hated so much that I spent the first day of nursing school sobbing (always with the dramatics!) on the way back to the train, I told myself that I would Do Something Else when Ben was older.

Then I met The Daver, retired from nursing, and waited.

I’d juggled and jiggled the small kid, the spouse, and school before and it wasn’t fun, so I figured that once I closed the doors to my uterus, and my youngest was old enough (old enough is to be determined), I would start to do all of the things I’d been unable to do.

In essence, I’m getting very close to being able to do the things that I want to do again and I can taste the freedom and it is flipping sweet. I don’t have a huge long list of things, nor do I plan to have some sort of crazy timeline, because that sort of thing is setting yourself up for failure, and being a parent is like living a lesson in failure every single day.

Opera singing is out, however, because desire isn’t everything, and you kind of do have to have a talent for something like that because we can’t all be astronauts or opera singers.

But next week, I’m going back to the gym (imagine that sung to “Going Back To Cali”) to begin training for, wait for it, wait for it, wait for it…

Roller Derby. Stop laughing. I have a perfect Roller Derby name. “Becky Sharks.” And how rad would I be? Stop laughing or I will punch you. Then, I’m going to tackle boxing. No, not kick boxing or some boxing aerobics class, but real mouthguard in mouth, maybe lose your teeth, and probably get loads of broken bones. Teeth are overrated, right?

And while those of you who know well my propensity to be injured, I figure if I can break a toe making a sandwich, why not at least do something cool while dislocating bones and getting rad scars? Scars, I’m sorry, but scars are cool.

I also have less dangerous ideas, like getting better at using my digital SLR. I don’t have any desire to do anything besides take better pictures of my family, but I think it’s really about that time to start figuring out what all those numbers and buttons and settings do. Because otherwise, why didn’t I just get a point-n-shoot?

(rhetorical)(alternately, because I am a moron)(but I like rhetorical better)

Eventually, I’ll go back to school to pursue my degree in virology and then plead to the CDC to hire me, even if it means I have to move away from the Midwest to do it. When I used to tell people this as I was slogging through nursing school, they’d laugh at me. And honestly, it WAS unkind. No one could believe that I’d want to go back to school, but I’m pretty sure that they didn’t realize mocking my dream was only going to make me THAT much more determined.

If I can get into any program, that is. If I can’t, feel free to mock away.

More than anything else, I’m just really looking forward to doing something besides wiping butts, using my body as a gigantic teething ring, and reclaiming my individuality. Not to say that having my kidlets isn’t part of who I am, it’s just not all that I am. It can’t be. Otherwise, I’d end up a useless pile of goo the first time all three of my kids are in school at the same time, and not celebrating by drinking a dirty martini for breakfast.

Because it’s always vodka-o-clock somewhere, right?

What do YOU want to be when you grow up?

*Why do adults always think to ask kids what they want to be when they grow up? What a dumb question to ask a freaking 8 year old.

—————-

It’s HOUSEKEEPING TIME, Kids! Yaaay!

The video that I put on Facebook of my daughter–the one where I told you we could be BFF, an offer that still stands–was edited using iMovie. I have a Mac (read: love, love, LOVE) and iMovie was ridiculously easy to use. Especially since I had The Daver do it.

I’m thinking that the best way to handle the business cards contest is this: YOU, oh brilliant creative soul that you are, write a blog post about it. Post your pictures on your own blog, write your captions, tell your story, it’s cool. I’m on the edge of my proverbial seat here, people.

Then EMAIL me the link (aunt.becky.sucks@gmail.com) and I will put it up on the post I will write after the emails come in. Then you can urge YOUR people to come check out the competition and my blog won’t take 38 hours to load from all of the pictures.

IF, by chance, you do not have a blog, or have a blog that you want traffic to, send me the blurbs and pictures or whatever you do, and I’ll put them in the post here. *I’ll* be your blog, Internet. Deadline for entries is September 8, which will also be the day that voting begins. Let’s vote for a week, deadline September 15 at 11:59 PM, and winner–and several runners up, yo–announced the next day!

So, pimp yourself out, and don’t feel bad about it.

Let me know if you haven’t gotten the cards by the end of the week and you got your address to me last week because it’s likely I misspelled something or maybe missed an important number.

xoxo,

Aunt Becky